


Beans or Something

by dontbecooler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M, No Homo, Past Drug Use, Platonic Life Partners, There is a pig yay, haha - Freeform, humor?, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbecooler/pseuds/dontbecooler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home drunk and now Sherlock has to take comfort in a pig... Is John sinking into a deep dark hole of alcoholism??</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beans or Something

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for not updating my other stuff, im more for the RPing.. hopefully they'll get done more soon (no promises oops)
> 
> HELLO IF THIS IS YOU PLEASE LET ME KNOW BECAUSE I KNOW I TALKED TO YOU BUT I DIDN'T SAVE YOUR DETAILS IM SO SORRY PLEASE DONT BE MAD
> 
> This happens way too much...
> 
> anyway enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing  
> (psst Kudos if you do haha)
> 
> I am John they are Sherlock (brilliantly done may I add)

 

John staggered to the side of the cab that pulled up, to the disdain of the driver. "I- I am truly sssorry," he slurred, sliding into the back of it. His vision was blurred, and as they drove the world spun dramatically.

"Ooh slooooooow," he groaned, falling onto his side. The driver tutted, but drove more slowly, in hopes that his passenger would not defile the back of his cab. John stayed lying on the seat, not wanting to sit up due to his dizziness. The cab stopped, and John dragged himself out, mumbling a big thank you to the cabbie, who rolled his eyes and snickered as John fell into the door. He fumbled for his keys, and swore loudly when he couldn't grab them.

"SHERLOCK," he yelled, balancing his forehead on the door.

 

It hadn't been a particularly good evening for Sherlock. First his visit to the yard had ended up...poorly. He was going with poorly since that probably covered nearly getting arrested. Then he came over to a chastisement by Mrs. Hudson about the teacup pig he was keeping in their bathroom (apparently it escaped and rummaged through her pantry). Then John was gone, again, leaving him bored and alone in the flat. No cases, no experiments, just him and a tiny piglet that had so far chewed through two books and pooped all over the floor. But then, John had been going out a lot more lately hadn't he? Sherlock was in full sulk, bathrobe and all, when he heard someone shout his name from the streets. Not typically one for flying towards the sounds of panic (too dull) he nonetheless went to the window to peer out and see what was wrong. When his eyes landed on John Watson, looking very much like he was going to mess himself one way or another and too loaded to even hold a key properly, the detective grunted in displeasure and moved towards the door.

"Imbibed more than you can handle John?" he asked snidely once he'd gotten to the door. "Couldn't go sleep it off at Sarah’s?"

 

John rolled his eyes, moving his head too involuntarily. He tilted his head, pushing last Sherlock and staggering, falling into the wall.

"I haven't dated Sharah for aaaaages," he said, mostly clearly, as he tripped over the first stair up to their apartment. "At least I gotta cab that time, Gregory the man is getting quite annoyed," he rolled his head around to look at Sherlock as he clumsily pulled himself up into a standing position using the banister. "Is that silly pig thing still here?" He asked, as he furrowed his brow. Stairs weren't supposed to move while you tried to walk up them. How inconsiderate.

 

"Doesn't stop you from sleeping on her sofa," Sherlock replied irritably, following him up to make sure the blonde didn't injure himself. Mrs. Hudson would fuss at him if John got blood on the floor or something. "And yes, the piglet is still here. I'm thinking of keeping it. It'll grow on everyone and it's decently useful. Besides, it would do to have a pet. Might convince people I don't murder small animals for fun." Seeing the man swaying on his spot, the detective gave another irate grumble and reluctantly wrapped an arm around his waist.

"Let’s get upstairs before you make a mess of the stairs and my shoes. I detest drunkenness, I hope you know, it's utterly ridiculous that you would go out and purposefully do this to yourself."

 

John’s eyelids fluttered as he found himself being almost dragged up the stairs. "Means I don't 'ave to worry about dying alone," John tried in a philosophical tone. He ended up leaning his entire body weight into Sherlock’s, smirking as he tripped up and almost landed on his face. "That bacon is cute," John stated, pushing himself off Sherlock when they reached the top. He waved his hands, leaning back against the wall while Sherlock opened the door. John saw the piglet, bobbing down and squealing like a young girl.

"Awww piggy," he said, opening his arms. When the piglet stayed still, John stood, looking miffed. "Idiot," he snapped at the pig, looking around, feeling lost. What to do now?

 

"The pig is not going to come to something that call it bacon and smells like a brewery," Sherlock snapped, more ore less dropping the man the first moment he could. The man detested drunks, a....history with substance abuse and...Problem relationships with family and friends left him disgusted with the whole affair. At least drug users tried to hide their doing. People in bars didn't even try. They enjoyed showing off how drunk they were. The Piglet was understandably alarmed by the noise and ran to the crate where it felt safest. Sherlock made it a comfy little bed there, that's what the internet said they liked anyway. "Just go to bed John and quit scaring my pet. You smell foul...perhaps you should take a shower while your there. Sober you up so you won't sound so pathetically maudlin."

 

John scoffed, turning and shaking his head at Sherlock. Even when he was drunk the detective ground on his nerves. "Don't act all high 'n mightly please," he said, placing his hands on his hips. "I am just trying to have a little fuuun," he tried to say seriously, though he swayed in place due to lost equilibrium. "I would have a shower," he added, "but I'd slip I think."

 

"Oh yes, fun. Getting nauseatingly sloshed on a cocktail of various formations of ethanol. Oh yes, it sounds like a blast," Sherlock scoffed. "I don't like drunkenness John. It's just another type of substance abuse and I've had a hard enough time of that in my life thank you very much. If you can't shower than take a bath, I've got one off of my room. Make the water shallow enough and you won't drown."

 

John sighed. "I'm sorry mate. I didn' mean to be all like, hey, I'm all drunky an' stuff; it's just a time where I can get away from blood an' stuff. Let go." He swung his arms out, fingers dangerously close to a vase balancing on a table. "I'll have a bath," he stated, taking a step forward and crashing right into Sherlock. "Crap," he swore, trying to pull himself up using Sherlock’s collar. "Sorry," he slurred, feet slipping and squishing his cheek against Sherlock’s chest.

 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock wrapped an arm around John and stated guiding him upstairs. "If you do not want to continue working with me on cases you need only say so," he murmured stiffly. "I do not want to drive you to drink. It's....inappropriate of a flat mate, I'm sure. And you've been doing it more often. So perhaps it's time for a life change before you become your sister and drink yourself out of your rent money and your job."

 

John rolled his eyes. "I'll stop," he said, almost tripping over Sherlock’s legs. "Lock me in the bathroom or sommin at night." He sniffed, eyelids heavy. "An' I don't wanna stop being your Robin," he said slowly, pulling himself up straight on Sherlock’s rooms doorway. "I jus' only got away from it ya know?" He asked, kicking one leg over the other, sliding slightly down the door frame.

 

"Robin?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows going up. "And I am not about to lock you in the bathroom John, you could hurt yourself in this state. I am not even certain you can undress yourself so it behooves all of us if I help you otherwise we will have an unpleasant hospital visit." He paused, trying to keep John steady. "Why did you want to get away from it? And if it bothered you so much why did not simply inform me? I'd have given you a break."

 

John put up a hand, shaking his hand sloppily. "Don't lock me up noooow," he told Sherlock, narrowing his eyes. "Tomorrow or sommin." He frowned, slipping a little more, but straightening up with a dazed expression. "And I'm not tryin to get away from it, you just make me feel stupid, so I go talk to random people in the pub. Socializing an' all." John tried to push himself into standing, but he fell forward, falling into Sherlock. "Shit," he cursed."

 

"Can you socialize without....turning into a drunkard?" he asked with a drawl as he tried to help the man into the bathroom. Once he finally got him there, Sherlock sat him down on the side of the tub and began to take his shoes off. "I don't intend to make you feel stupid you know I think it just sort of...comes out that way. I am apparently poor with people...something I've known but becomes more apparent the longer I'm around them."

 

John shook his head, fumbling as he tried to take his jumper off. "You're real good at what you do; don't worry ‘bout silly people who get offended." His voice was muffled by his top. "You stay who you are," he said, getting it off with a tug. "You're cool."

 

"Cool...right..." Sherlock chuckled slightly to himself as he helped John with his top, amused by the man's inability right now. "I believe I have no other option than to be who I am but thank you. Can you get your own trousers and pants off or do you require assistance with those as well?"

 

John scoffed. "Don't pretend you don't want me," he chuckled, standing up and putting his hands out for balance. "Run the tub?" He asked, biting his lip as he tried his zipper from escaping his fingers. He got it down, and yanked his pants down, being sober enough to not pull his briefs down too.

 

"Want you?" he asked, eyebrows hitting his hairline. Lovely, drunken flirting. Just what he needed. Something John could brush off in the morning and make his mood even worse. Trying to ignore it, he turned the taps on and plugged the bathtub so it would fill. "There we go, water's running. Do you still require my assistance or can I leave?"

 

"Nah piss off," John said, sitting on the edge of the tub. "See you," John said cheerily, waving animatedly. He watched as Sherlock left, tugging off his underwear, sighing as he rolled into the bath. There was a splash, and John laughed, turning the taps off. The water didn’t want to drown him, but he'd have to be careful. He lay in the water, just soaking, as he watched the ceiling above him dance merrily.

 

Feeling more grumpy and unhappy, Sherlock slumped his way downstairs to play with his piglet. It was as close to a danger night as he'd had in awhile and it was topped off by John Watson bloody drunkenness. Again. His piglet (who he'd yet to name) toddled over to him and crawled in his lap for a cuddle. The thing didn’t' like John but that might have had something to do with him accidentally kicking it the first day it was in the flat. Didn't hurt it, thankfully, but it was a bit gun-shy after the fact. He just hoped that John would be sober and...Tolerable the next day. He didn't have any cases so the man could...do whatever it is he did when they didn't have cases and work (Saturdays were always dull.)

 

John felt very relaxed in the tub, the water was warm, and soon John felt his eyelids slipping closed. "Wait," he told himself. "You'll drown." John nodded, pulling the plug and drying himself really quickly, before he fell asleep in the bathroom. He toweled his hair, meandering into Sherlock’s room and falling onto Sherlock’s bed, starkers. His eyes slid shut immediately, and his jaw went slack as he slipped into a heavy sleep.

 

"He's an idiot, you know," Sherlock told his piglet. The little thing just snorted at him as he stroked it's back. It had been such a long couple of days; if John was sober he'd have told him to stay up, to watch him because he wasn't exactly in the best place (and he was _not_ calling Mycroft) but that would have to wait. "Why don't we go sleep? You can stay with me so long as you do not defecate on my bed sheets." Lifting the pig into his arms, Sherlock walked upstairs and into his bedroom, only to stop shirt. "John Watson," he seethed, seeing his friend naked on his bed. His bed. Sherlock wasn't even allowed in John's room. Irritable, he went to linen closet, grabbed a pillow on the blanket, and went huffily to the couch to sleep there. Idiot. Bloody idiot.

 

****

 

John slept like a log. His night was dreamless, but when he awoke everything was throbbing. "Christ," he moaned, disorientated. Where was he? Sherlock’s room. "I need to stop drinking," he stated, rubbing his aching temples. He was naked. Curiouser and curiouser. He rolled onto the floor. He couldn't lie around all day, even if he really wanted to. John licked the inside of his mouth, hating the disgusting furry feeling. "Crap," he groaned, going into the bathroom and wrapping a towel around his waist. He brushed his teeth with his fingers and some toothpaste, not turning the light on in case they were too bright. John ended up wandering downstairs, still in a towel. "Hey Porky," he greeted the pig, heading towards the kitchen. He was starving. It didn’t even cross his mind to think about Sherlock. He was in too much pain.

 

At some point during the night, the pig began waddling around the flat, eating it's food and just generally exploring it's new home. When the other human came in, the one that hurt it, it squealed and sort of darted into it's crate where it knew it was safe. The squeal was what really began to disturb Sherlock from his uneasy sleep. The man never slept well on a night like the last one but it was especially bad when he wasn't in his own room. A whole host of unfamiliar (and therefore distracting) sounds, smells and lights that kept him from a deep sleep. It was terrible. And he was still a little furious with John for forcing him to sleep here. And they called _him_ the selfish one in the flat. When he finally registered the thumping footsteps, Sherlock realized what the squeal was and sat up. "Did you hurt my piglet?" he demanded blearily, irritation clear in his voice.

 

John frowned. "I didn’t touch Porky," he quipped irritably, trying to find the coffee. He tried not to move too much, lest his towel fall and he flashed Sherlock the Crown Jewels. "What happened last night?" He asked, pulling out two mugs and flicking the kettle on. While he waited, he drank a huge glass of water, wincing at the different stabs of light that stung his eyes.

 

"He squealed," Sherlock accused him, in no better a mood. "And his name isn't Porky. That's undignified and he deserves better. As for last night...you came in around 1-2am drunk, had me put you in the bath and then passed out very rudely in my bed. It's amazing you didn't piss in my closed or...vomit everywhere." It was obvious the man wasn't pleased with John's behavior. "That would make that the...second or third time this week, is it?"

 

John tsked. "I’m not doing it again," he spat, though the harsh words were making his skull throb. "Sorry I offended you." He pulled out the coffee, making Sherlock’s the way he liked it, and walked into the lounge and sipping at his own mug. He placed Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table, and John sighed heavily, leaning against the closest wall with his eyes closed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can you lock me up or something next time?" He asked, unaware that he had said the exact same thing last night in not so many words.

 

"I am not your father nor your babysitter, John. If your drinking has become that much of a problem perhaps you need more assistance than just me," Sherlock replied, taking his coffee and trying to ignore that they'd had the drunken version of this conversation the night before. "I have no idea what is the matter with you John but it has far surpassed what it should. You need to get a handle on this before you end up like your sister. You won't be out of a house but you can't miss anymore work for hangovers. I don't know what's wrong with you but please, get a handle on it." His pig came out, snorting and looking peckish so he held out a bit of fruit for it to eat, smiling as it snagged it and ran off.

 

John opened his eyes, but he kept them narrowed. "I'm nothing like my sister," he growled. He leaned his head back. It was too early in a hangover to be squabbling. "I'll sort it out okay? I'll talk to Greg about it; he had some problems with it." John rolled his shoulders, trying to get the kinks out. He watched the piglet run around, and smirked. Sherlock seemed to be growing attached.

 

"So you're not coming home almost every night drunk off your ass, unable to put a key in a lock?" Sherlock commented. "You're not having people carry you out of a cab because you passed out in a bar and they had to use your ID to get you home safe? No, no you're totally fine. Perfect." He knew Lestrade had a drinking problem before but wasn't fully sure if it got better or he just found another outlet. Either way, he wasn't hopeful. "Come here," he told the piglet, dangling another treat to get it's attention. "He doesn't like you because you kicked him. But if you're nice to him he might stop running from you."

 

"I'm perfectly nice to him," John replied in clipped tones. Maybe he did have a problem. But why had it started all of a sudden. "Do you really think I have a problem?" He asked, sighing. He didn’t want to be having this conversation with a thudding headache.

 

"You kicked him and he's a baby. If you kicked a toddler, wouldn't it be understandably frightened? He's the same," Sherlock responded quietly. "Though I'm not sure you'd remember since you did it while you were drunk. So...so yes, you...you have a problem John. And you aren't acknowledging it."

 

John scoffed. "Can you stop badgering me for a second?" He asked sharply, wincing at his high pitched tone. "You're nagging me like a mother." He slid to the floor, keeping his legs together. "I don't even know why I'm doing it? You know?" He said quietly, not sure if he wanted Sherlock to hear him or not. "There's no reason to. I like my life." He sighed forlornly. "Sorry pig," he said, looking at the pink thing waddle around. "I didn’t mean to kick you."

 

"Fine, drink yourself to death then. I won't say anything to you about it." Sherlock said stiffly. "But, coming from someone who had their own addiction to kick, talking can be...useful. And figuring out why. You can like your life and still be miserable in it, trust me." The pig waddled over to Sherlock and he picked it up, letting it cuddle in his lap. Since his best friend seemed to care less and less for him as days went by he'd found a new companion, one that couldn't go off to bars. "Maybe it's me. Maybe I just...need to move out. Give you space. You mentioned you were trying to get away last night."

 

"I'm not trying to get away from you," he said, wincing again. "Can I get changed before you go all psychiatrist? My head is dying." John got up stiffly, eyeing the pig with a little bit of humor. "Cuddle your pig while I'm away," John teased lightly, shuffling off to his room, coffee mug still in hand.

 

"At least my pig let me keep my bed," Sherlock snarked. "Go change, take some aspiring. Just...try and finish sobering up, yea? And eat a banana. It is supposed to help with the loss of potassium." He did cuddle his pig; glad the little thing was tame enough. He'd gotten it from a rather abusive breeder...then having said breeder arrested for double murder.

 

John stumbled into his room, dropping the towel and pulling on clothes. He didn’t want to talk about this; there was nothing wrong with him. John cursed repeatedly under his breath, going back downstairs to grab a banana and plonk down in the chair opposite Sherlock. "Ask away Dr. Holmes," he said in a dry tone, sipping his coffee and downing the aspirin he had picked up with it before beginning to peel his banana.

 

Still sitting on the couch, legs propped up and piglet happily cuddled, Sherlock watched the man move back for a banana and some meds before plopping down in a chair. What to ask first? "Very well," he said quietly. "When did you first decide to start this....ridiculous thing? I mean what spurred you to go out. You've been doing this...what...a month? What was the very first catalyst? Surely you should remember."

 

John huffed. "Not particularly." He bit his lip, trying to think back. "Um, I'm pretty sure it had been a rape case." He furrowed his brow, chomping a bit on his fruit. "He was stabbed heaps, and there was lots of blood." John paled, remembering clearly now. "She looked like a woman I had to shoot in Afghanistan," he whispered, eyes wide. He didn’t want to think of this.

 

"Ah," Sherlock nodded. "And that woman....why did you have to shoot her? Clearly this reminds you of her....thus your drinking...and if you don't talk about it it'll continue to eat you up until you are drunk all the time." The 'like your sister' was left off out of necessity. After all, he'd mentioned that enough. Though, given the genetic disposition for alcoholism in his family, it probably could use mentioning several more times.

 

"Because she was walking towards us. She had a flag, but everyone yelled at her to stop walking. She kept going; we couldn't let her come close in case she had a bomb. I shot the first bullet. I was a dead shot," he breathed the last bit, looking off into a time a while ago. The bullets had riddled her body, and she had just been walking. She hadn't known English, that's why she didn’t stop. And John had for her right between the eyes. "She couldn't have been more than twenty," John added, biting some more off of his banana to keep himself occupied.

 

Sherlock paused, trying to think. "It was painless for her," he offered quietly. "It wasn't right, it wasn't fair...and none of you should have had to do that to her. It was a bloody and pointless war. But...John you may have fired the bullet but what happened...wasn't your fault. Blame the people like my brother who put you in there because it was convenient for them. Her death is on their hands, not yours. Not the hands of someone who has to live with the reality of death everyday."

 

John gave a mirthless laugh. "It's still my fault. I didn’t have to pull the trigger, but I did." He swallowed thickly, not even tasting the food he was consuming. "What about her family, she probably had a partner. I took her away from them." John stared at the pig, guilt washing over him alternately with waves of an achy pain. If he was drunk he couldn't feel like this. "Christ I need a drink," he breathed to himself. If he was constantly drunk he wouldn't have to worry about hangovers either. No hangovers, no pain. It was a win-win. John steered his mind away from the tempting thoughts, sculling some of his hot drink to pull himself back into reality.

 

"You don't need a drink John, you need to deal with what happened," Sherlock said, keeping his voice calm though he was beginning to feel irritated. "Yes, you killed her. And there were probably people who mourned her. That is something you'll have to live with. It was more the fault of the people who taught you to see her as a threat rather than a person but in the end yes, you pulled the trigger. But do you think drinking yourself to death in anyway...vindicates that? That is makes that death....decent? You could do good for people John, or live your life and try to do better....the things she didn't get the chance to. And you'll live with it because that's your cross to bear. You don't get to put it down because it hurts, that's not how it works."

 

John huffed again, angrily biting the banana. He chewed and met Sherlock’s eyes. "Stop being so damn right," he growled, holding the icy eyed gaze. "It wasn’t only her," he said after a moment. "Want me to tell you about all the other ones?" John gave a dark laugh, and his voice was strained. His breathing was coming more quickly. All this remembering was making his head throb twice as bad.

 

"If it'll help you, sure," Sherlock responded softly. "And would you like me to tell you all the people I've hurt? The people that died because of me? John, when you live the sorts of lives we live there is no way to keep your hands clean. You just...press on and vow to do better and to not forget the people you...you couldn't save. It's honestly the best advice I have for you."

 

John thought for a second. "No," he said flatly, "I don't want to hear about who you've hurt. Because if you've hurt people and can keep yourself together that makes me weak. Because I've hurt people and I'm falling apart." There was an annoying prick in the corner of his eyes. When did John let it get so bad?

 

"If you recall, I was a drug addict for nearly a decade," Sherlock responded dryly. "I would say that I had my time falling apart and not dealing with it. Why else do you think I know damn well how to keep you from making my mistakes? Deep breathes, John, it'll be okay. Just...remind yourself that and that you can do better and... It eventually gets to the point when you do, that's all. You never dealt with what happened so it's unsurprising you finally hit a low. Would you like to pet the pig? I found it's actually quite soothing."

 

John barked a laugh. He hasn't ever expected that phrase to come out if Sherlock’s mouth. "The pig doesn't like me remember?" John chuckled dryly. His expression dropped, thinking. This wasn’t good. What if he turned into his sister? He didn’t want to be like his father, unemployed and scrabbly. No he didn’t want to follow in his family members footsteps. Thinking was bad, it seemed, John realized when he blinked back. He was barely short of hyperventilating. "I don't want to be like them," he choked out, putting the banana skin down as well as the empty mug.

 

"Then don't be," Sherlock responded simply, holding out the pig. "The difference between you and your sister, John, is that you actually recognize you have a problem. And that is the first step to actually fixing it, you know. Recognizing it. So that is a good thing. If you don't want to be like them don't. Tell me when you're having danger nights and I will sit with you. Find a therapist. Break something. Get a cat. I don't know. Find something that helps you hold on and you won't be like them. And he doesn't like you but if you make it up to him by giving him a grape and petting him I'm sure he'll forgive you."

 

John took a deep breath, putting his hands around the little creature. It squealed bloody murder, until John put the banana skin by its face. The pig snuffled, and settled down, crunching through the skin and whuffling as John ran his hands slowly over it. He smiled at the thing. "It really needs a name," he said kindly, rubbing its ears. It was kind of cute. "I think Porky is a perfect name." John looked up, meeting Sherlock’s gaze with shining eyes. So yeah, he did kill those people, but that was the past. So he would keep a chamber in his heart that would grieve for those lost souls, and if ever it over flowed Sherlock would be there. Alcohol was not. "What do you think?" He asked quietly to the pig, which squeaked. "I think he likes Porky," said John, chucking at Sherlock’s expression.

 

Sherlock's expression darkened. "We are not calling him Porky," he hugged, watching as the pig finally settled down to eat his banana peel. "I want to call him Gladstone. Or something more...dignified. Porky isn't and it'll give him a complex, same as calling him Bacon would. I want him to be a brave piglet since it will inevitably see some odd things during it's life. And I told you it would forgive you. Just don't kick him anymore. He's only a baby, two weeks old at most. I got him special feed and some formula for him. Put his previous owner...and breeder...in jail for double homicide. Was rather pleasant." He was glad John seemed to be responding well to this talk because it was...uncomfortable when the man was drunk all the time.

 

John smirked again. "What about Titan then?" He asked, "Or Zeus." He ran his finger down the whole body. "Maybe Goliath, like the giant slayer?" Johns mind was still aching, and he probably needed to drink ten more glasses of water before he had enough water in his system, but his thought were slowly clearing. If Sherlock could do it, so could he.

 

"No, I don't like those," Sherlock responded evenly, watching the pig whuffle a bit more and wiggle before settling in. The pig seemed much happier with John now that he got food rather than a kick. "Something else. Something that doesn't sound like a grade schooler named their dog it, something...I said dignified, so dignified. That would definitely be better. I am not overly good at names. I once named my childhood dog Redbeard....that was as creative as I ever got."

 

John gave a patronizing "Aww," before settling down. "What about naming him after someone? I personally love the name Martin, though it’s a bit human." He chewed his bottom lip, trying to think of a name for the little pig. Piglet, Pooh... "Christopher? No, too human also. I suck at names too, you think of something."

 

"Too human," Sherlock agreed, frowning at the piglet as he tried to name it. "How do parents name their offspring? It is difficult enough naming a pig," he complained as he considered. "Could call him something...cuter and less dignified, though I'm not fond of it. Like Beans....or perhaps Hercules...or just call him Piglet. Wasn't there a child’s fable that had the word piglet for a pig character?"

 

John nodded. "Yeah, Piglet, but I like Beans, more for the fact that you'd have to say the word 'Beans' to get his attention." John smiled. "I vote Beans."

 

"Beans it is then. Hello Beans, welcome to our odd little home." The piglet was snorting, mildly interested only because he was looking for more food. "I did not mean to bring a pet home but when I saw the deplorable conditions...they might accuse me of being heartless but I am far from it."

 

John smirked. "Beans the teacup pig. What a title." He chuckled, leaning forward. The pain in his temple was fading, and his shoulders felt lighter somehow. "Beans," he said again, stifling a laugh. "It's perfect."

 

"As good as any, I suppose. He is tiny, so the title fits. And he can be our mascot. Provided Mrs. Hudson doesn't make to big a fuss. He made a mess of her pantry so he's not her favorite creature now. Though if I tell her where I got him she'll probably soften." He stretched out on the couch, yawning a bit and trying to cover it up.

 

Seeing Sherlock yawn made John want to do the same. He covered his mouth, and shut his eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said after a few seconds, flicking his eyes open and laying his gaze on Sherlock. "You always told me you hated drunkenness. I didn’t listen. Also, I'm sorry for kicking your pig."

 

“I don't like drunkenness. People do stupid things when they're drunk, people get hurt and....and it's all unnecessary," Sherlock said with a sigh. "And it's not me you have to apologize too, it's Beans. As long as he forgives you for kicking him, I forgive you for doing it too. Provided it doesn't happen again."

 

John steeled his expression. He looked at Beans, and furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry for kicking you Beans. Do you forgive me?" He asked with a serious tone, and the piglet snorted as of on a queue. "I think that was an 'I forgive you'," John said, before breaking into a grin. He didn’t feel stupid at all, talking to a pig and apologizing to it.

 

"I am going to assume that it was. Or else that he wants a banana peel. Really, to a pig, it amounts to about the same thing," he replied with a chuckle. Beans did seem over his fear of the other man, at least, which made one less problem to handle in their flat. Once he'd finished the peel, he closed his eyes and drifted off. "Baby pigs sleep a lot, apparently."

 

"Hung over people sleep a lot to," John quipped, moving himself and the pig into a more comfortable position. He leaned his head back, lying down on the couch, with Beans on his stomach. John yawned again. He could probably sleep right now, even though it was the middle of the day. "See ya," he told Sherlock, shutting his eyes and cradling Beans.

 

"Sleep well," Sherlock responded evenly, sliding down to rest himself. He had to admit; he hadn't slept well the night before and could use a nap. Even genius detectives needed a rest now and then. At least everything was temporarily worked out and they could try and... Figure out how best to proceed. First, though, sleep.

 

John drifted off to sleep, with the piglet whuffling against him, and Sherlock huffing softly as he drifted off. John decided he wouldn't trade it for anything, and slipped off into unconsciousness.


End file.
